


From May to December

by AXEe



Series: From May to December [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, May/December Relationship, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AXEe/pseuds/AXEe
Summary: Love is blind, it does not see race, religion, or age





	1. The Breakup

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've had since mid-2014, it was a labor of love, and is not even finished yet, so please let me know what you think :=)

*******

~~~

**Part One  
May**

~~~

*******

Mark Daniels ducked and threw his arms up over his head in self-defense as a pair sneakers—a pair of very dirty sneakers at that—came flying out the four-story window above him. Fortunately they landed on the sidewalk next to him rather than on him

“Hey!” he yelled up at the window indignantly “those are my best pair!!” a litany of rather creative curses were his response “oh, good, yeah, that’s real mature, Bree!” he yelled back in response as more of his clothes and other personal effects came flying out the window, Mark having to duck and bob and weave as each item fell, lest he get hit in the head and land in the ER with a concussion (which, admittedly, might be preferable to getting into another screaming match) “oh…go back to Seattle!” he finally yelled after the assault stopped, before awkwardly stooping down to pick up his belongings. He glanced up at the small crowd of gawkers standing nearby in a small disorganized clump “what?!” he snapped “you never seen a guy getting thrown out by his girlfriend before?” he demanded. With a few mutters and murmurs the crows quickly scattered at his outburst, their fun over.

Sighing, Mark stooped down and began to carefully pick up his clothes and other belongings now scattered across the pavement “idiot!” he muttered, whether he meant himself or his now ex-girlfriend he wasn’t really sure. Groaning, Mark struggled to get his six-foot-three tall frame down to a level where he easily pick up most of his personal belongings. Fortunately he never was much of a materialist, and most of his things could easily fit into a few boxes, which in turn could fit into the back of his Jeep Wrangler, even more fortunate, most of the breakable items were still in their boxes in said Jeep Wrangler, and therefore were sparred the indignity of being thrown out a four-story window by a cheating bottle-blonde to end up smashed to bits on an LA sidewalk. Including his cameras, he noted thankfully. Being a freelance photographer didn’t pay very much, but he liked it a lot, so finding that his cameras were still safe and sound in the back of the Jeep filled him with a enormous sense of relief.

Absently smoothing back his short-cropped natural sandy blonde hair, Mark’s blue eyes looked up as he saw a female figure in pink blow past him in an angry huff of hypocrisy. How she got the idea that her cheating on him entitled _her_ to throw _him_ out of his own apartment he didn’t—and probably never would—understand. Scooping up one his t-shirts off the sidewalk and shaking it out, Mark watched as Bree got into her convertible, which if memory served, he had partially paid for, and sped off into the Los Angeles afternoon “good riddance!” he called out after her as the convertible swung around the corner and disappeared out of his life.

Hopefully until doomsday.

Or even later, if possible.

Frankly, if Mark Daniels never saw Bree Williams again for the rest of his life, and even his afterlife, he would die a very happy man. Stomping up the four floor walk to the apartment he thought about his life so far. Dropping out of Harvard University to attend community collage at age twenty, he had then moved away from his home state of Maine to California, spending about a year or so in San Francisco, getting a few photo jobs here and then. Deciding to move to Hollywood in hope of getting a few higher paying jobs, Mark then met Bree Williams at twenty-three, an aspiring actress with big aspirations and very small talent.

He should have known then that it was doomed from the start, but like the ‘good guy’ he was, he tried to see past the petulant, childish, manipulative exterior to find the inner good. Only to find out three years later that Bree Williams either didn’t have an inner good, or if she did, it was buried so deep that not even Indiana Jones could find it and it get out. After three years Bree had become, if anything, even more petulant, childish, and manipulative. The final straw came when he caught her in bed with his next door neighbor. That had been shocking to say the least, but to find her in bed with both the husband _and_ the wife at the same time was down right mind-boggling. His older brother Jacob had told Mark to face the fact that Bree was a slut, and for once Mark had to agree with him. After all, the womanizing jerk should know all about it, he’d probably slept with her too at one point.

Mark stopped his mental train of thought before it went off the rails and simply stood in the middle of the apartment. Looking around he noted that most of the items on the shelves and walls were Bree’s, very few of the things he liked were allowed, she hated his music (who didn’t like doo-wop?), hated his taste in movies (since when did ‘ _Easter Parade_ ’ become a bad film?), and, most especially, she hated the fact that he never earned that much money and refused to use the trust fund his parents had set up for him to make up for that fact. Walking over to the couch Mark picked up a picture of the two of them together off the floor. Taking a breath he made a decision.

Screw her.

*******

Packing up his belongings, Mark had decided to move back to Maine, but he didn’t want to move to Granview right away and have to face his mother, that might give her the impression that he had come crawling back, and the last thing he needed right now was to deal with his overbearing, highly critical, ‘let’s-make-our-children-into-our-own-little-prancing-ponies’ mother.

Squinting at a map of Fairview County, Maine on his laptop, Mark was at a loss as to where to go, until something caught his eye. Clicking on the link, he found himself on a page detailing a small unincorporated island community just off the coast but still within county lines, Bell’s Island, Mark vaguely remembered a few ferry rides to a—in his mother’s words—‘quaint’ little town just an hour or so’s drive away, but he didn’t really remember much about the town itself, just the fact that it was on a tidal island, and therefore you could simply drive over when the tide let out.

It was a start.


	2. The Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark arrives on the Island

Driving cross-county wasn’t as bad as Mark had originally remembered. The only problem being crossing state lines via the interstate highway system required having to stop every now and then for gas and the occasional border check for fruits and vegetables, but other than that the only hiccup had been finding enough money to buy a ticket for the ferry ride over to Bell’s Island.

The kindly clerk at the ferry building had politely suggested that, if Mark was going to a regular traveler on the ferry, he should buy a pass, she’d explained that it worked similarly to a bus pass, he could use it roundtrip for however many trips were on it (five, ten, fifteen, or twenty) until it either expired or all the trips were used up, at which point he’d have to get a new one. Uncertain if he was going to be staying in Bell’s Island for very long, Mark had politely thanked her and moved on.

The ferry reminded Mark of a few of the ferryboats he’d taken in his life, divided into an upper and lower deck for cars, while the forward bow was for the passengers, the ferry was designed to carry both cars and their owners from the island to the mainland and back. There seemed to be only three of them in operation at any given time, not that it was strictly necessary to have three ferries, as tourism to Bell’s Island seemed to be more-or-less nonexistent, looking around his surroundings on the deck of the ferry, Mark could see that—although designed to carry up to a dozen cars and people—he seemed to be only one of about five people in total on the ferry at the moment, the other four were loitering about the deck, looking somewhat lost.

Turning back to the bow, Mark could see the island itself. It was quite a large island, with a majority of the population of five hundred seeming to occupy the center and west side—the part of the island facing the mainland—of the island, while the north and south parts of the island—from Mark’s perspective the left (north) and right (south)—seemed to be largely uninhabited, filled mostly with an abundance of trees and rocks and no obvious buildings that Mark could see.

Unloading his Jeep from the ferry, Mark noticed two things right on the docks of Bell’s Island, firstly there a small ramshackle building with a lopsided sign that simply read ‘The Shack’, both the building and the sign looked like they’d fall over any second if you so much as breathed too hard as you passed by. Secondly, he saw a larger, four story building much further down the pier with multiple windows and a tall sign that even from a distance clearly read _‘Bell’s Island Inn’_. Deciding that it was his best bet he made a plan to stop in and ask if they had a room available, but first, some breakfast.

Although seafood wasn’t exactly his first choice for breakfast, Mark couldn’t see any other obvious eating establishments, so he headed for the Shack, only to be confronted by a sign in the window that read CLOSED. Frowning, he was wondering where he could find somewhere else to eat, when a loud splash caught his attention, turning around he saw that several fishermen were coming ashore with their catch, which seemed to be mainly lobsters, crabs, and other shellfish 

_‘Mainly Maine lobster’_ he suddenly thought giddily, and then decided that the hunger must be getting to him

“You look a little lost there, son” one of the fishermen said suddenly, walking up to Mark and setting his lobster pot down by his feet, the occupants of the pot simply sat there and twitched, unaware of their impending fate

“I am actually,” Mark admitted “do you know if the…er…Shack will be open soon?” he asked

“Sorry, son,” the fisherman—who looked and sound almost like the stereotypical fisherman in his sweater and cap with his gruff voice and short, wiry, grey beard “the Shack don’t open ‘till noon,” he explained, his New England accent thick and rough. He bent down somewhat awkwardly to pick up the lobster pot; Mark quickly reached down to help the man lift it

“Here, let me help you with that, sir” he said, his own New England accent creeping out

“Thank you,” the old man replied gratefully, as the two carried the lobster pot over to the back of the Shack “but,” he continued “if you’re looking for food, I’d try Flo’s” he explained

“Flo’s?” Mark asked

“Flo’s Diner,” the old man explained as they set the pot down “down on Main Street, can’t miss it” he pointed down the length of the docks towards the center of the island

“Oh, thank you” Mark replied, shaking the man’s hand, before turning to head back to the Jeep

“And if you’re looking for lodgings, you can forget the Inn,” the old man suddenly called out after him “it’s being fumigated” he explained

“Thanks,” Mark said weakly. This was turning into a great week “I…guess I’ll ask around town” he muttered

“Ask for Isaiah Abraham,” the old man suggested “he keeps a couple of cottages down by the beach on the north side of the Island, rents ‘em out to the tourists who drop by” he explained

“Thank you” Mark replied as he got in the Jeep and started the engine

“Welcome to Bell’s Island!” the old man called out jovially over the Jeep’s engine, waving his cap in both a farewell and a greeting as Mark drove off.

*******

Finding Main Street was downright childishly simple. Driving down the length of the mostly empty two-lane street, Mark noted that most of the buildings lining either side of the street seemed to small shops and other businesses, many of them were old, two story brick buildings with the occasional awning, and most were just opening up for business it seemed, Mark could see figures moving in the shop windows, and signs turning over from CLOSED to OPEN. Finding Flo’s Diner was also simple; it was the squat, narrow 1950s era diner car that stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the brick and mortar in stainless steel that shone in the mid-morning sunlight that peaked through the Maine fog.

Entering the small diner, Mark saw that was already packed, looking like it had already been open for several hours, apparently it was one of the few places in town to eat. Mark found himself grinning as he took in the almost-stereotypical interior; a long counter ran down the length of the car, while several small, two-person (four with some elbow grease) booths lined the walls, while the ceiling was curved, echoing back to the time when diners were built to resemble train cars. Seeing that the counter was entirely taken up, Mark squeezed himself into a booth; struggling a little to get his large frame into the small booth. He was still trying to figure out how to fit his legs under the table without having to break either the table or his legs first when a waitress came over.

“Welcome to Flo’s. What can I get you?” she asked, passing Mark a simple sheet of paper. She was an older woman, about forty, with straight, shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. She was dressed in a typical 1950s era waitress uniform; this one was a light powder blue with pink accents. A quick glance at her nametag revealed the name ‘Maggie’. The piece of paper she’d handed him was a simple menu, plain and simple, with no fancy embellishments; it just listed the items and their descriptions and prices—entrees and appetizers on the front, desserts and drinks on the back—a very simple menu with no fancy fonts, typeface, or cute little pictures of the food in question.

“Uh…” Mark quickly scanned through the menu “could I just get…the roast beef sandwich on rye with just a little mustard?” he asked as Maggie jotted it down on her pad “and…how much is coffee…from…you know…actual beans?” he asked, a small smile graced Maggie the waitress’ lips as she answered

“It’s a buck fifty” she answered

“No mocha?” Mark asked “no caramel? Nothing fancy? Just beans?” he wanted to be absolutely certain, Maggie’s smile widened into a bona fide grin

“Nope,” she answered “none of that Starbucks crap here,” she confirmed “just good old fashion coffee here”

“Good,” Mark answered, finding himself smiling back at her, he suddenly found himself offering his hand “hi, Mark Daniels” he introduced himself

“Maggie Myers,” was her reply as she warmly shook his hand “you new in town?” she asked

“Just got here about fifteen minutes ago” Mark admitted, Maggie nodded

“Well, if you’re planning on staying for long you’ll need a guide” Maggie told him, confused, Mark blinked

“Uh, no offense, but a guide to _what_ exactly?” he asked “the entire island has a population of only, what, five hundred people?” he continued

“True,” Maggie admitted “but you’ll need somebody to show you around, explain the rules, you know ‘don’t step on the grass’, ‘keep to the right’, ‘only on Sundays’, stuff like that” she explained, Mark nodded in somewhat confused understanding

“Oh, I see, uh, well do you know anyone like that?” he asked

“Actually, yeah,” Maggie answered “her name’s Claire, she runs the antique shop right over there,” she pointed out the window to the row of shops across the street, in front of one of them Mark could see a sign that read ANTIQUES “she should be there by now,” Maggie continued “you could run over there when you’re done with your sandwich, or just wait for her to come here, she usually swings by around ten o’clock or so” she explained

“Thank you,” Marked answered honestly “but, uh, actually, right now I’m looking for an Isaiah Abraham,” he explained “I was told that he rents out some cottages for tourists?” he asked

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Maggie replied “he should be in any sec…hey speak of the devil!” she exclaimed with a grin as a tall distinguished-looking older black man entered the diner “there you go, Slick” she said to Mark, before hurrying off towards the man, presumably to tell him about Mark. Mark’s suspicions were quickly proven correct as the man headed in the direction of his booth

“Mr. Daniels, is it?” he asked

“Yes, that’s right” Mark answered

“Isaiah Abraham,” the other man replied, holding out his hand, which Mark warmly shook “I understand that you’re looking for lodgings while staying on the Island?” Isaiah continued, his voice was low and rich, reminding Mark of Morgan Freeman

“That’s right” Mark answered

“May I?” Isaiah asked, gesturing towards the booth

“Please, help yourself” Mark invited. As Isaiah sat down opposite Mark with a slight contented groan, Mark studied him. Isaiah Abraham was about sixty, if not older, his grey hair was balding and cut short, almost to a buzz cut. His plain brown tweed suit with a matching hat and bowtie clearly indicated that Isaiah was from a generation where any respectable man would not have left his house without at least a tie and coat. He carried himself in a confident, distinguished manner, and was clearly a proud man, not vain per se, but proud of his accomplishments and personal achievements, a man who carried himself with dignity.

“So,” Isaiah began “how long are planning on staying here on the Island?”

“I’m not really sure,” Mark admitted “it’s a bit of a long story” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain it, because frankly, he still didn’t quite understand it himself

“Ah,” Isaiah waved a hand dismissively “relax, Son, I’m a former priest myself, and I’ve heard them all. Doesn’t matter, you’re here now and away from whatever trouble was bothering you, aren’t you?” he pointed out, Mark smiled

“I suppose so” he admitted, liking Isaiah already. He’d always felt more comfortable around older people anyway, even as a child he found he like being around the grown-ups more than he liked being around kids his own age.

“Anyway,” Isaiah continued “I might have a place for you; it’s not much, basically just four rooms, a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and a front room”

“That’s fine,” Mark answered “I don’t need much, just a place to sleep really” he explained

“I’m afraid I don’t have the key on me at the moment,” Isaiah explained “but if you’re willing to meet me in about, say, an hour, I can show it to you then” he explained

“That’s perfect” Mark exclaimed

“Good, good,” Isaiah replied “it’s down by the beach, here’s the address,” he took a pen out his breast pocket and wrote down the address on a napkin “we can work out the rent then,” he continued, sliding the napkin over to Mark “now then,” Isaiah said, easing himself up out of the booth and putting his hat back on “if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Daniels, but there’s cup of coffee with my name on it”

“Of course,” Mark said “thank you” he added, shaking the man’s hand once more. As Isaiah moved off towards the counter, Maggie returned with Mark’s sandwich and coffee

“Here you go, Slick, black coffee, and a roast beef sandwich on rye with mustard,” she said as she set the items down “anything else?”

“Uh, you said something about a guide?” Mark asked

“Oh, yeah,” Maggie said in sudden realization “right…Claire…,” she said in a slow, halting manner. There was something unsettling in her sudden grin, not evil, just…mischievous, like a little kid playing a prank Mark noted, Maggie frowned for a few seconds and uncomfortably rubbed the back of her neck with her pencil eraser “she’s…interesting, to put it mildly” she continued

“How about you _don’t_ put it mildly?” Mark suggested in a very serious tone. While he fancied himself as a gentleman, and tried his best to be polite and considerate of others, and tried his damndest not to judge a book by its cover, the one thing Mark hated was being the victim of a practical joke. The various pranks he’d had to endure from his brother as a child had probably traumatized him for life, so whenever he encountered a situation where he though someone was playing a prank on him he briefly let go of his nice guy attitude and made it clear that you shouldn’t mess with him. Apparently seeing his unease etched on his face, Maggie sighed.

“OK, look, kid,” she began, taking a seat across from him in the booth “Claire’s been here on the Island for about sixteen years, and most people still aren’t sure what to make of her when they first meet her,” she explained patiently “to most people,” Maggie continued “when they first meet her, they think she’s just some woman who runs an antiques shop, which is true, but that’s only part of it. Once you get to know her a little better then maybe you’ll look at her like she’s some kind of a modern-day Noah or Dr. Doolittle, rescuing all the strays of the world. To the little kids in town, she’s either an evil witch or a magical fairy godmother, depending on who you ask. And to some she’s just that crazy woman who lives with her daughter and dozens of dogs up on Coal Hill” 

“So…what should I expect?” Mark asked, clearly a little dazed from the information overload

“Well,” Maggie began “firstly, she’s like a permanent twelve year old, full of energy, so you’d better be good at playing catch-up or she’ll leave you spinning your wheels in the dust”

“OK” Mark replied, filing this information away for later

“OK, secondly, she’s a bit…well ‘weird’ would be putting it bluntly,” Maggie explained “she’s a former hippie, so she’s into that whole New Age-y ‘palm-reading-your-destiny-is-in-the-stars-hug-a-tree-make-love-not-war-kumbya’ kind of thing, so if that turns you off, don’t bother” she explained

“I’m pretty open-minded,” Mark answered “anything else I should be worried about?” he asked

“Just one,” Maggie explained “if you hit it off with her, you’ll have a loyal friend for life,” she told him as she stood up and went back to her other customers “enjoy the sandwich, Slick” she called over her shoulder, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts


	3. Claire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark meets Claire

*******

Finishing his sandwich (which turned out to be one of the best he’d ever had in a long time), Mark decided to give the mysterious ‘Claire’ a visit. Jogging across the street he stopped in front of the antique store across from the diner. The sign hung up above the awning read

Knick-Knacks & Bric-a-bracs Antiques

There was a smaller sign, which hung above the door itself, and read: _’The same as it never was’_ , that made Mark chuckle. The display windows on either side of the door were crammed with odds and ends. Strange, somewhat eerie-looking things that Mark didn’t even recognize as being anything other than junk, much less knew were valuable antiques, but he reminded himself of the old saying: ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’. On either side of the shop were a bakery on one side and a bookstore on the other, an eclectic place if ever. Deciding to get it over with, Mark swallowed any fears or worries that he may have had and pushed the door open, a little bell tinkled above his head as the door swung shut behind him.

The interior of the shop was just as crowded and cluttered as the windows, several tables and chairs of various heights and sizes and shapes were haphazardly scattered throughout the room, decorated with odd, colorful pots and other strange objects. Wall clocks of various shapes and sized decorated the walls, quietly ticking away, and even the ceiling was cluttered, decorated with chandlers and lamps of varying size and shape, some on, some not, bathing the whole room in a spooky half-light. The walls of the room were lined with an almost-unending row of bookcases and shelves which were crammed with vases, dolls, pots, and even actual books, and other stranger, odds and ends, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how the objects were arranged, more like where they would fit in an already crowded room, but yet…there was a strange feeling as if the objects actually _had_ been arranged in a bizarre type order that Mark just couldn’t understand.

The whole room had a strange, almost fairytale-like quality to it, as if the shop was the result of a union between an antique shop and curios shop, like some magician’s shop out of a storybook, and Mark was half-expecting an old Gypsy woman to suddenly come out of the back with a flourish and ask him if he wanted to hear his fortune. He even suspected that the rugs covering the hardwood floor (which he was currently standing on with his muddy work boots, he realized) were antiques, which was why he quickly moved off them and towards the counter.

The counter was a long glass display case filled with even more odds and ends. Mark’s eye was drawn towards what appeared to be an antique camera set sitting in the case. He was examining the items (each he noticed from the little price tags tied to them with small pieces of twine were over one hundred dollars each), his mind turning over the fine beauty of the items, when the sound of a door closing caught his attention.

Looking up, he saw a figure emerge from the back of the store through a door behind a beaded curtain; Mark couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman due to the large cardboard boxes the figure carried in their arms. In fact all that Mark could see of the actual person behind the boxes were simply a pair of legs in blue jeans and the long loose sleeves of a light sun-yellow sweater or cardigan which were covering the arms holding the boxes.

“Be right with you,” the boxes said in a woman’s voice before setting themselves down of the counter with a heavy sounding thump and a loud sigh of relief “I swear, that’s the last time I bring out the entire inventory in one go” the voice said, before the arms slid the boxes sideways, allowing Mark to finally see their owner. 

The woman now standing in front of Mark, and looking a little winded, appeared to be in her late-forties in age, but Mark could tell she was probably much older, probably closer to her fifties or even her sixties. She was tall for a woman, about five foot-seven, with long, shoulder-length blonde hair that was clearly going grey, as evidenced by the few, but obvious, streaks of grey running down the length of her hair, turning her hair from a dirty blonde color into a lovely kind of white-gold color which melded well with her fair and freckled skin.

She had a round, kind and welcoming face, with the clear definition of laugh lines etched into her temples and around her lips, which seemed to enhance her beauty rather than detract from it. Further offsetting her features were a pair of wide striking blue eyes that seemed to be laughing and dancing with a kind of playful mischief. She wore no makeup that Mark could see, the lack of which only seemed to add to her overall beauty, giving her a natural, fresh-faced kind of beauty.

“Uh, hi” Mark began, suddenly finding himself at a lose for words, his throat as dry as sandpaper

“’Uh, hi’ yourself” the woman replied with a grin that lit up her whole face, the laugh lines on her face crinkling into a cheerful and open expression that just seemed to broadcast a friendly and welcoming feeling to all the world

“Um, I’m looking for Claire?” Mark asked, the woman’s grin widened

“Well you found her,” she replied, she held out her hand “I’m Claire” she introduced herself; her voice was bright and energetic with a slight lisp, as if she had something in the back of her mouth

“Hi, I’m Mark Daniels” Mark introduced himself, shaking her hand, her hands were warm and soft, he noted absently, elegant but strong

“Nice to meet you, Mark Daniels,” Claire replied, vigorously shaking his hand before turning and picking up one of the boxes off the stack and moving out from behind the counter to the rest of the shop. As she did so, Mark could see the rest of her, she was wearing a loose yellow cardigan over what appeared to be a loose white tank top or low cut t-shirt or blouse, which was loose enough to be tasteful, but still showed the hint of a nicely rounded, full and curvy, hourglass-shaped figure, with a low enough neckline that showed off a tasteful amount of skin, accentuating her collarbones and neck and showing just the barest hint of a cleavage, low enough to be tasteful, but not so low as to be obscene.

With the top came a pair of what could only be described as ‘bellbottom mom jeans’, they were faded and worn from frequent use, the wide cuffs were tattered and frayed, and the right knee clearly had the beginnings of a few tears in it, while her left knee had what looked like a black knee brace wrapped around it.

Mark could also see that her hair was much longer than he first thought, reaching down almost to her waist, and he wondered briefly how long it took her every day to wash and dry it after a shower. The pair of red-and-white Chuck Taylor All-Star low-tops on her feet squeaked in what could only be described as a ‘cheerful’ tone on the polished hardwood floor as she walked, reminding Mark of some kind of cartoon character “so, buying or selling?” she asked as she set the box down on the floor and cut it open with a box cutter and began unpacking its contents, which appeared to be table lamps of various designs

“Uh, neither, actually,” Mark answered, now feeling somewhat awkward “uh, I’m new in town, and, uh, Maggie, the, uh, waitress over at the diner, told me that I needed a guide around town” he explained 

“And, let me guess, she suggested me?” Claire asked

“Uh, yes, ma’am” Mark replied politely, Claire looked up at him, clearly surprised

“’Ma’am’?” she exclaimed with a laugh “my, aren’t we polite?” she noted, leaving Mark at something of a loss, was she mad at him for bugging her about a guide he wondered. As if reading his thoughts Claire continued “ahh, it’s all right,” she assured him, waving a hand dismissively as she turned back to the box “I like being the unofficial town tour guide,” she explained, glancing back over her shoulder to grin at him as she pulled the last lamp out of the box, setting it down on the table next to her with a quiet thunk “it’s fun showing people around town and seeing their reactions at all the crazy things we do around here,” she continued with another grin which lit up her face as she stood up somewhat stiffly, absently rubbing her left knee through the brace in a clear sign of discomfort “hey, you’re a big strong guy,” she said, changing topics suddenly “think you could help a girl out and bring that box over here for me, hon?” she asked, gesturing to the rest of the stack on the counter behind Mark while flexing her fingers in a clear ‘gimmie’ gesture. Mark, who had strongly to believe in helping people, didn’t mind.

“Oh, sure,” he said, grabbing the next box, which proved to be just as heavy as it looked “oh, geez!” he exclaimed in surprise as his knees suddenly buckled and he struggled to carry the box over to where Claire was standing “what the heck’s in here? Bricks?” he asked as he set the box down on the floor with a relieved gasp as his shoulders all but screamed in relief.

“Close,” Claire answered “old books, actually,” she explained dryly, slitting the box open with the box cutter. As she slowly reached into the box and pulled out a book she let out a gasp of surprise “is this…?” she began “it is!” she exclaimed, holding up a book “look at this, this is an original, 19th century edition of Jane Austin’s Emma” she said in a hushed tone as Mark hurried over to her side to see

“Wow…” Mark whispered, looking over her shoulder “how much is something like this worth?” he asked, gently reaching out to touch the cover

“In this good condition?” Claire asked rhetorically “a couple thousand, _at least_ ” she answered

“Wow!” Mark exclaimed again “where did this _come from_?” he wondered

“The owner of the box said he found it in his late-father’s basement mixed in with old tax returns,” Claire explained “he never even really opened it, just peeked inside, I actually only paid fifty bucks for the whole kit and caboodle” she continued

“I’ll give you two bucks for it” Mark said a mock-serious tone, grinning as he did so, which earned a deep belly-laugh from Claire. It was quite a pretty laugh, a bright, whooping musical sound filled of life and joy, the laugh of someone who truly enjoyed a good joke, someone who knew how to have a good time without worrying what others thought “I’m serious!” Mark insisted, pushing for all he was worth now, which only made Claire laugh harder

“Oh, OK, stop, stop!” she laughed, finally quieting down into a few giggles “oh, I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Daniels” she said

“I think I’m going to like you too,” Mark agreed honestly “Ms…?” he began, but Claire just waved a hand dismissively

“Ah ’Claire’ is just fine,” she told him as she hoisted herself up and onto the edge of the counter, perching there like a little girl, even ideally kicking her legs like a child would “now, then,” she began “what would you like to know about our little town?”

“I don’t know, what can you tell me?” Mark replied, a bit of challenge in his eyes

“That’s depends, what do you think can you handle, _city boy_?” Claire shot back, grinning slyly

“Oh, I can handle quite a bit, _townie_ ” Mark replied, meeting her challenge, he frowned to himself, were they…flirting he wondered? as Claire’s bright laugh brought him back to the present

“Oh, I am _definitely_ going to like you!” she exclaimed, as she hopped off the counter with an easy grace and giving Mark a playful punch on the arm. She suddenly grabbed his arm, turning his wrist to peer intently at his watch “c’mon, I’ll take an early lunch break and show you around” she explained, dropping his arm

“What about the store?” Mark asked, jerking his thumb behind him, as Claire began to switch off the lights and draw the curtains, dashing around the room with a child-like glee

“One of the perks of being the sole owner and operator,” she exclaimed, switching off the last light, bathing the room a somewhat-eerie half-light coming from the two main windows “c’mon,” she insisted, pulling open the door “we’ll go out around town and I’ll write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet in the Easter parade!” she laughed, Mark found himself returning her grin as he took her incentive and walked out the door

“I’m hardly Fred Astaire” he remarked as Claire closed and locked the door behind her, the sign in the door now reading CLOSED FOR LUNCH

“Hey!” she exclaimed, spinning around to face him, grinning again as she did so “you got that! Cool, and here I thought everybody under thirty hadn’t heard of _Easter Parade_ ” she remarked

“’Heard of it’?” Mark exclaimed “it’s one of my favorites”

“No kidding?” Claire asked as they began to slowly walk, Mark shrugged indifferently

“I like old movies, Fred Astaire in particular” he explained

“Me too,” Claire answered “how come you like him so much?” she asked, Mark shrugged again, absently stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and idly scuffing the sidewalk with the toe of his boot

“I dunno,” he began “I guess, maybe, it’s because I wasn’t the most coordinated kid growing up, and seeing him dance made me realize that I could do better” he explained, somewhat surprised at having revealed such a personal piece of information to a woman he’d just met. There was just something…comforting about Claire, something that made you feel perfectly at ease around her, Mark somehow knew on an instinctive level that even under pain of death, Claire would never repeat to anyone what he had just said if he asked her not to

“Oh, you can _always_ do better,” Claire quipped, bringing Mark out of his musings “speaking of which, what did she do to you that made you run?” Mark looked up at her in surprise, his head moving so fast he could have sworn he heard something in his neck pop

“How did you…?” he began, Claire rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him

“Kid, I’ve been around for a while now, trust me, I can spot the old ‘running-across-the-country-to-get-away-from-my-crazy-ex’ routine from a mile away” she explained, patting him on the back affectionately as she led him into the bakery next door to her shop. The similarities in their respective heights—such as it was, her five-seven to his six-three—made it so that she didn’t have to reach up that far to reach Mark’s shoulder, it also meant that all he had to do in order to see her face was simply glance down _’it would also make kissing a lot easier’_ he thought and then wondered where that thought had come from, but was sidetracked as the door to the bakery swung shut behind him.

The air inside the bakery was warm, and the smell of warm baking bread and other baked goodies filled the air, making Mark and Claire’s mouths water. The front of the bakery was a small room with eight tables running along the outside of the room, while the centerpiece of the operation, the counter, stood out proudly displaying a wide variety of cakes, pies, pastries, and breads inside its brightly-lit glass case, all designed to tempt anyone who walked through the door to enjoy to their heart’s content (after opening their wallets first, of course).

“Hey, Claire!” the man behind counter exclaimed jovially

“Hey, Mike,” Claire replied in a noticeably bland and neutral tone, a stark contrast to her previously cheerful tone “you got that cake for me yet? Sammy’s birthday’s coming up” she said

“Sorry, not yet,” Mike replied, as Claire frowned Mike added “why don’t you just bake her one?” he suggested “you bake” he added

“I guess I’ll have to” Claire muttered, glowering at him

“So what’ll you and the tourist there have?” Mike asked, ignoring Claire’s glower and pointing towards Mark, who up until then, had been trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible, no easy feat when you were six foot-three and weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds

“Well,” Claire began, carefully looking over every item on display in the case “I think that…I will…have…a slice…of…ooh! Pumpkin pie, definitely!”

“Uh, could you make that two?” Mark asked quietly

“Sure thing,” Mike replied “whipped cream OK?” he asked

“None for me, thanks,” Claire replied as Mark nodded yes “the first thing you’ve got to do when come here to Bell’s Island,” Claire began, turning her attention back to Mark as Mike cut two slices out a large pumpkin pie in the display case “is have a slice of pie, doesn’t matter what kind of pie, but you have to have a slice of pie,” she explained “seriously,” she added “I speak from experience, it’s like…the law here, if you don’t have at least one time get a slice of pie on your first trip here, people will look at you funny” she told him

“Well, then it’s a good thing that I like pie,” Mark replied as he took the two plates and forks from Mike “oh, no, here, I’ll get it” he said as Claire pulled out her wallet, she looked up him, surprised and genuinely touched

“Why, thank you, Mark” she said warmly as Mark pulled out his own wallet, shrugging indifferently at his own generosity, seeming to be a little embarrassed at having it acknowledged. No, not embarrassed, Claire realized, honest, to him offering to pay for both of them wasn’t part of any scheme to be nice or a way of flaunting his money, no, to him it was just something that he should do, something naturally ingrained into his psyche, it was a part of him, some part of his character that, if you asked him about it, he would probably just shrug and say that he never really thought about it much and then change the subject.

“It’s least I could do,” Mark replied “after all, you _are_ giving me valuable survival techniques,” he added with a grin, which Claire met with one of her own “debit OK?” he asked Mike, holding out his debit card

“Sure” Mike said. After paying for the pies the two sat down at one of the small tables

“OK,” Mark began in between bites of his pie (which—like the roast beef sandwich—had to be the most delicious pumpkin pie he’d ever had) “I’m having a slice of pie, which is delicious by the way, is this organic?” he asked

“Probably” Claire replied with a frown as she leaned forward and calmly scooped a glob of whipped cream off his slice with her fork

“Hey!” Mark exclaimed indignantly as she quickly swallowed the glob “didn’t anyone ever tell you not to steal from someone else’s plate?” he demanded

“Oh, relax;” Claire told him “you’ve got plenty,” she said as she scooped up a bite from her own slice “in fact,” she added, mouth full, emphatically pointing at his plate with her fork “I’m surprised that you can even taste the pie under that mountain of fat and preservatives that you have there” 

“Fine,” Mark grumbled, stabbing at the slice of pie with his fork with slightly more force than was needed, suddenly reminded of his childhood fights with his sister “as I was saying, I’m eating a slice of pie, so what else do I ‘have to do’ while I’m here?” he asked

“Well…you could visit the town library, which is also the town museum. If you like museums and books, that is” she suggested

“I do” Mark replied, Claire smiled another bright smile, and reached across the table to playfully slap his arm

“Good for you,” she told him earnestly, as if her opinion of him had just gone up several notches just by his mentioning that he liked books and museums “OK, what else, what else?” she muttered, rapping her fingers on the tabletop in an energetic motion “oh! You’ve got to go climb to the top of the lighthouse; you can see the whole Island from up there” she said suddenly, Mark stifled a laugh, Claire’s movements were energetic and playful, almost like those of a child

“What would I see from there?” he asked

“Oh, lot’s of things,” Claire answered “like I said, you can see the whole Island from up there” she repeated

“Such as?” Mark probed; Claire leaned forward conspiratorially, beckoning him closer until she could whisper in his ear

“Such as,” she whispered “FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF!” she suddenly yelled gleefully, making Mark yelp in surprise and jump back, his ears ringing, Mike the baker barely batted an eye at Claire’s outburst, everybody in town knew she was the mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, and several cousins several times removed of weird. As Mark winced and rubbed his still-ringing ear, Claire looked somewhat apologetic “sorry,” she said somewhat sheepishly “but this a guided tour, not a guide book,” she explained “no sitting around here, you got to see the Island to know it” she added

“OK, OK!” Mark said, still wincing

“So, what do you do for a living?” she asked suddenly, Mark, always happy to discuss his trade (and hoping to stop Claire from yelling in his ear again), answered eagerly

“I’m a freelance photographer” he explained

“Oh really?” Claire asked, clearly intrigued “you specialize in anything in particular? Like wildlife? Models?” she asked, she melodramatically threw her hair back and batted her eyes on the last word

“Not really,” Mark replied with a laugh “I mostly just take jobs when they come,” he explained “you know a fashion magazine one day, National Geographic the next”

“I’ve got to ask,” Claire began “but can you _really_ live on that?” she asked “I mean, seriously, you’re literally living paycheck to paycheck” she continued

“Can _you_ really live on selling antiques all day?” Mark fired back playfully “ _you’re_ literally living from customer to customer” he pointed out; Claire gave a melodramatic mock gasp of shock and flopped back her chair, miming being shot in the chest

“Oh! The indignity!” she exclaimed, she suddenly grinned and sat back up “actually, yes, you can, especially during tourist season,” she explained “and if you must know, Mr. Daniels,” she continued in a mock haughty tone, leaning forward “being an antique shopkeeper is only my hobby, I also happen to be a registered nurse” she threw her head back again in a melodramatic ‘so there’ gesture, Mark found himself smiling again at Claire’s antics, they were cute and childlike, giving her a charming sense of playfulness yet without making her seem immature or childish

“Ah, I see,” Mark replied, he glanced at his watch and nearly fell off his chair in shock. It was already almost noon, he was due to meet Isaiah in about fifteen minutes, he suddenly realized that meant that he had been talking to Claire for almost an hour “oh, geez!” he exclaimed “I’m so sorry to cut this short,” he apologized, getting up and painfully smacking his knee into the table “but I’m in a rush, I’ve got to see someone about somewhere to stay,” he explained wincing as his knee throbbed “I’m fine,” he assured Claire as she got up help him “and I’m in rush” he added, hopping/hobbling his way to the door

“Oh, you’re meeting Isaiah?” Claire asked, at Mark’s surprised expression she simply gave him look you might give to an idiot “it’s a small town” she reminded him

“Right,” he reminded himself, already halfway out the door “again, I’m so sorry to rush out on you like this” he apologized again

“That’s all right,” Claire assured him calmly, she waved her hands in a shooing motion “go, go, give Isaiah my love, put some ice on that knee to keep the swelling down,” she told him “and remember,” she called out “if you need a guide, you know where to find me”

“Right,” Mark said again “thank you” and with that, he dashed out the door and hobbled across the street to his Jeep.

Still sitting at the table, Claire watched him go, smiling thoughtfully.

 _‘Sweet kid’_ she thought _‘wonder how dumb the girlfriend was to throw him away’_ with that she quietly turned back to her slice of pumpkin pie, but not before another thought wriggled its way into her brain _‘good-looking too’_ , chuckling at that last thought, Claire went back to her pie, filing that particular thought away for future use.


	4. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark enters his new place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Glad to see people reading this, hope you're enjoying it and let me know what you think!

*******

As the door to the simple cottage swung open, Isaiah Abraham visibly gagged and choked, his eyes watering as he twisted away in shock as a truly revolting stench wafted out of the door.

Which was not a good start to having Mark as a potential renter.

“Good… ** _god!_** ” Isaiah exclaimed, aghast “the last renters must’ve left their garbage behind. Whatever’s in there has been building for a good two weeks,” he continued. Behind him, Mark reeled backwards from the smell and stumbled off the short three steps leading up to the porch, Isaiah’s aged but firm hand latched onto his arm and, amazingly, not only held Mark’s large frame steady but also hauled him back upright “this is no way for a new renter to begin their stay on the Island,” Isaiah explained “please, don’t think of this as an omen,” he said hurriedly “just think of it as an introduction to the summer people,” he suggested as Mark groaned in disgust. The smell was a truly revolting combination of dead rotting fish and something that smelled vaguely like old grease, with just a touch of skunk.

It had to be the most disgusting thing Mark had ever smelled. He was doing his best to make sure that the roast beef sandwich, coffee, and pumpkin pie he’d just had stayed in (if anything, he thought, it would be a shame to lose such good food) when Isaiah spoke up “here,” he began “you stay here, while I go in and throw out that mess and open a window” he explained

“You’re not actually going _inside_ , are you?” Mark exclaimed, gagging as he made the mistake of opening his mouth so close to the doorway “oh… _geez!_ ” he moaned. While Isaiah bravely ventured inside, Mark moved to the very edge of the porch (and as far away from the smell as possible), which was bleached a pale sliver by the sea salt and the sun, and took in his surroundings. The cottage was the last on a narrow, winding dirt road leading to the east side of the Island, facing the wide cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean, giving Mark a spectacular view of the water from the porch, while the rear of the cottage faced west, towards the main part of town.

Tall beach grasses sprang up from the sand and rocks between the various small cottages, the grass was tall enough to reach Mark’s waist, creating a slight barrier against prying eyes. There were only three other cottages that Mark could see from the porch, spaced a fair distance apart to allow for some privacy, while a series of child-sized paths through the grass sprouted off from the dirt road, winding their way through the tall grass to each cottage.

In all it was a picturesque, storybook-like setting.

From inside the cottage, Isaiah loudly cursed, which soundly killed the storybook image dead as a doornail, and Mark forced himself away from the stillness of nature in order to give the former priest a hand. He walked in prepared for a disaster, and was not disappointed in slightest, in fact, if anything, he was under-prepared. The actual interior layout of the cottage was quite nice, a large living room area blended into a dinning area which blended into a small kitchenette while a pair of French doors led to a rear porch, and a single door off to the far right undoubtedly led to the bedroom, but unfortunately the layout wasn’t the problem.

“Sometimes, I think that the entire human race is doomed to hell” Isaiah said simply. He stood in the middle of a room that looked more like a testing ground for new recruits to a CDC HAZMAT team than a rental cottage. Empty platters filled with rotting lobster shells were scattered throughout the room, while the inside of the dishwasher made Mark wonder if the appliance could be saved, or if they should just take it out back and shoot it to put it out of its misery. The couch was covered with crumb-covered plates and bowls filled with stale and moldy popcorn, and the floor was…well ‘sticky’ wasn’t the right word, but neither was ‘slippery’, in fact the floor was somehow a combination of the two, so that Mark’s hiking boots were not only sticking to the floor, making it hard to walk, but whenever he did manage to pry one of his feet free to take a step he went sliding forwards, not to mention the weird, creepy, kind of horror-movie-like ‘squelch’ sound that happened every time he took a step/slid across the floor.

“I hope you got a huge deposit from these people,” Mark commented, as he sifted through the muck. Fortunately, Isaiah had a box of large garbage bags and a few pairs of rubber gloves in his pickup truck for just this type of situation. Unfortunately, it was quickly becoming clear that they would run out of garbage bags long before they ran out of garbage to fill them with “just who were these people anyway?” Mark wondered, as he reluctantly—and very gingerly—picked up a tied-off condom between thumb and forefinger “small-time drug lords?” he continued as he quickly dropped the disgusting item into the bag, doing his best not to vomit

“Believe it or not, but they drove a new Volvo station wagon and said they were teachers,” Isaiah answered, hauling an already-full bag out to the porch “now, either that was a lie, or our children’s futures are in very grave danger,” he continued “the deposit they left was not worth this stink, but they will _never_ rent on this island again!” he swore.

*******

The two men opened all the remaining windows and hauled out all the garbage that they could squeeze into the last few bags. Mark ran a rather limp-looking broom through the main area, while Isaiah, the back of his pickup truck now brimming with black plastic garbage bags, drove off to the docks where the garbage barge shipped off from every month, promising Mark that he’d find someone in town who could help in the cleanup effort and explaining that Mark could forego the first month’s rent, all the while muttering darkly about the world coming to an end because people couldn’t wipe their noses.

About half an hour after Isaiah left the front part of the cottage was starting look like someplace Mark might feel comfortable taking off his jacket (but he still didn’t feel comfortable taking off his shoes just yet. Or sitting down for that matter). Unfortunately he had yet to tackle the back part of the cottage and he was all out of garbage bags.

It was while he was sitting on the porch taking a rest that a sky blue, early-model Range Rover rumbled up the road, coming to a stop just short of the porch with a slight rumble and rattle. The truck had obviously seen better days, its paint was worn here and there, mostly around the front bumper, and there were a couple of dents and dings around the passenger side door. Mark sat up, wondering if this was the help Isaiah had mentioned, as he struggled out of the old deck chair he was sitting in, the old, rickety chair creaked ominously every time he moved, and Mark seriously wondered if it would give way under him like an overburdened pack mule from an old cartoon. The driver’s side door of the Range Rover suddenly swung open with a creak and a familiar figure stepped out and gave a cheerful and energetic wave

“Well, hey there city-boy” Claire said with a grin

“Hi,” Mark replied, grinning back; he was grateful to see that it was Claire instead of someone he hadn’t met yet “what are you doing here?” he asked, finally managing to free himself from the Chair of Doom.

“A little birdie told me that you needed some help,” Claire answered “look, I even brought a special friend!” she continued cheerfully, as the passenger door opened and a second familiar figure stepped out

“Oh, sure. Have friend, will travel,” Maggie Myers the waitress from the diner remarked darkly. She’d obviously been off work for awhile, as she’d changed out of her uniform and into a pair of blue jeans, hiking boots, and a thin dark blue turtleneck sweater “hiya, Slick,” she said, waving to Mark before turning her attention towards Claire, glowering at the cheerful blonde as she did “’just a quick stop’ she said” she said in a mocking tone, clearly doing a poor imitation of Claire’s bright, almost lyrical, voice “‘we’ll being doing some good karma’ she said ‘help the new guy’ she said” she continued

“All you had to do was just say ‘no’,” Claire cheerfully called out over her shoulder in a sing-song voice as she gracefully glided around the front of the Rover and actually _skipped_ up the steps and breezed past Mark into the cottage “whoa, Nelly!” she suddenly yelped, backpedaling out almost as fast as she did coming in “oh, _god_ , what _is_ that?” she demanded, pinching her nose shut

“Take your pick,” Mark remarked “you’ve got a choice between rotting fish, rotting _shellfish_ , or stale butter” he continued

“Aw, geez, that is really, really, really _funky!_ ” Claire complained, waving a hand in front of her still-pinched nose “hey, Maggie! C’mere, you got to smell this!” she called out enthusiastically

“That’s it! I’m leaving!” Maggie exclaimed, throwing up her hands “give me the keys, Claire, ‘cause you and your new boyfriend on your own” she continued

“Aw, c’mon!” Claire complained good-naturedly “I was just _joking_ , **_geez-Louise!_** ” she rolled her eyes so far back into her head that Mark wondered if she could actually see her own brain. He also noticed that almost everything Claire said seemed to have an exclamation point attached to the end of it “just grab the bags and give them to me, then, we’ll do all the cleaning ourselves, you big baby!” she added.

Visibly grinding her teeth, Maggie opened the trunk of the Rover and threw several large garbage bags and other cleaning supplies to the ground before slamming the trunk shut and stomping over to the passenger door and climbing inside, slamming the door shut, visibly sulking, she even crossed her arms and pouted “oh, yeah, that’s _real mature_ , Myers!” Claire called out, loud enough for Maggie to hear from inside the Rover as Claire scurried down the steps and scooped up the cleaning supplies “you’re _forty!_ ” Claire called out “not _four!_ ” she continued before breezing back up the steps onto the porch “c’mon,” she said to Mark “looks like we’re on our own”.

*******

The smell had dissipated somewhat from when Mark had first walked inside, but it still lingered, undoubtedly hiding in little pockets, waiting to be unleashed by some unsuspecting innocent, namely Mark himself

“Not a bad job” Claire remarked, looking around

“Thanks” Mark replied

“Still stinks, though” she added, wrinkling her nose

“Thanks” Mark repeated, only with much more sarcasm this time around

“So, here’s the plan,” Claire explained, turning around to face him as she set the supplies down, which appeared to be enough to for an army “I’ve got bleach and other all-purpose _environmentally-friendly_ cleaners--”

“Naturally” Mark interjected with a grin, Claire chuckled at that

“…along with enough garbage bags, masks, and rubber gloves to supply an army,” she continued, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a loud snap “let’s get cracking!” she grinned

*******

Between the two of them, aided by Claire’s seemingly unending arsenal of cleaning products, the cottage rapidly approached some type of state that was near to—but not quite close to—‘livable’ over the space of an hour or so. As they work they chatted, the conversation flowing easily and comfortably, and Mark was surprised to learn that they shared many common interests. They discovered that they both loved dogs, were fans of the works of Jane Austin (as evidenced by their joke over the book in Claire’s store), they both enjoyed staying up late watching old black-and-white movies while devouring large tubs of ice cream, walking on the beach in the evening, and they both shared an interest in photography.

Despite her protests, Maggie eventually joined in on the cleaning effort, albeit with much grumbling, although Mark got the impression that most of it was an act, and she was soon contributing her share of the jokes, most of which were quite dirty and had Claire in stitches and Mark blushing fifty different shades of red.

After the kitchen counter had been swept, and the area rugs had been beaten to within an inch of their lives (as had that _thing_ that had suddenly scurried out from under the couch, which none of them had wanted to get too close to), and the bedroom and bathroom (both of which looked like a frat house had blown up inside them) had been cleaned/sterilized Claire had offered to help Mark unpack his Jeep. Mark had tried to politely refuse, but quickly discovered that Claire was a very difficult person to say ‘no’ to.

“C’mon,” she insisted “at least let us help you move the boxes inside”

“Who’s this ‘us’, Blondie?” Maggie asked, and then yelped in surprise as Claire swiftly kicked her in the shin “OW! Claire! You…idiot!” she cursed

“Yeah, yeah,” Claire muttered, waving a hand dismissively as Maggie hopped up and down a few times holding her leg and winching “c’mon, Kid,” Claire said to Mark “be a _mensch_. You told me yourself that you’ve just uprooted yourself from your home of three years, moved a strange place filled with strange people you don’t know, cleaned a truly _disgusting_ cottage, and _now_ you expect us to believe that you seriously want to unpack _all you stuff_ \--” she gestured to his Jeep “… _by yourself_ even though two people are offering to help?” she finished her argument with a raised eyebrow

“Well…,” Mark said slowly “I guess…when you put it like that…,” he trailed off and glanced at his Jeep, which while not stuffed to bursting or anything, was still full of heavy boxes, unpacking his books and camera equipment alone would probably take a few hours at least “yeah,” he said at last, his gaze returning to the two women “I could probably use some help” he continued

“Great!” Claire exclaimed jubilantly at the same time that Maggie groaned “oh, come on!” Claire complained, rolling her eyes as she followed Mark to the Jeep and grabbed a box out of the open truck “how hard could it be?” she wondered.

*******

“OK!” Claire gasped, all but collapsing into one of the deck chairs on the cottage’s porch, she took several deep breaths before continuing “I don’t know what I was thinking, but it’s official now: I am _way_ to old for this” she held up the bottle of ginger beer she’d retrieved from the Range Rover in a toast, which Mark happily returned, clinking his own bottle of ginger beer against hers, as Claire took a deep draught from her drink, propping her feet up on one of the boxes from Mark’s Jeep.

“Oh, come on,” Mark said at last “you’re not _that_ old”

“Oh, yes, I am” she insisted

“No, you’re not,” he assured her “you’re…what? Late-forties, early- to mid-fifties?” he wondered, Claire burst out laughing “what’s so funny?” Mark asked

“You really want to know my age?” Claire asked, still giggling, Mark nodded “you sure?” she asked

“I’m sure” Mark answered

“Really sure?” she asked

“Yes” he answered

“Really, really, _really_ sure?” she continued

“Yes, Claire,” Mark insisted, chuckling “I’m really, really, _really_ sure I want to know” he explained

“OK,” she said in a clear ‘I-warned-you’ tone “I’m sixty-six” she told him earnestly. For a few minutes, Mark just stared, wondering how she could be sixty-six when she looked barely out of her forties. He’d figured that she was older than she looked, but honestly!

“You’re serious?” he asked, Claire nodded

“Yep, here,” she pulled out her wallet “check out my driver’s license” she held up a Maine driver’s license, and firmly under date of birth Mark read:

07-4-47

“July 4th 1947,” he realized “you were born on the Fourth of July?” he asked

“Yeah!” Claire laughed, putting the card and her wallet away “you can bet my U.S. Marine father loved that”

“I’m sure,” Mark remarked “what’s your secret?” he wondered, Claire shrugged, looking indifferent

“I dunno…,” she muttered vaguely “positive thinking? Living well? Cut down on red meat? Yoga? Tai chi? Magic crystals? Alien visitations? How the hell should I know?” she exclaimed, taking another sip of ginger beer “what about you?” she asked suddenly, turning to face Mark “how old are you?” she asked pointedly, fixing Mark with a ‘look’. Mark blushed and squirmed in his seat, the Chair of Doom ominously creaking underneath him once more as Claire all-but loomed over him, before he finally answered

“I’m, uh…heh…twenty-six” he said sheepishly, suddenly feeling like a child compared to the woman sitting next to him

“Ah, youth,” Claire quipped, raising her bottle in a mock toast “I remember it well,” she suddenly hunched over, miming as if stooped over a cane and said in the croaking, stereotypical ‘little old lady’ voice “I remember when I was your age, sonny-boy! I had to walk five miles just to get to school!” she waved her imaginary cane around in the air and added “hey, you rotten kids, turn that blasted music down!” before truly doubling over in laughter. Mark joined in, finding her laughter infectious

“You know, I have an aunt just like that” he remarked

“No kidding?”

“Yep, scratchy voice and everything,” Mark explained. As their laughter died down Mark asked “speaking of kids, Maggie mentioned that you have a daughter?”

“That’s right,” Claire answered with a nod, taking another sip of her ginger beer “Samantha, Sammy for short” she added

“Any grandchildren?” Mark wondered “if you don’t mind my asking?” he added quickly

“No, I don’t mind,” Claire assured him “and, no, no grandkids, not yet anyway, she’s a little too young for that” she continued

“How so?” Mark wondered

“Well, for one thing, she’s only sixteen,” Claire explained, Mark frowned and did the math in his head “I’ll spare you the headache, I had her when I was fifty” Claire explained, Mark looked somewhat shocked

“That’s a little…er…risky, isn’t?” he asked “I mean having a child so late” he added

“It is,” Claire answered, she shrugged indifferently “eh, what can I say? I got married late,” she continued “figured that the old baby-maker was out of gas, and all of a sudden, hey presto, it’s a girl!” she chuckled “just goes to show that Mother Nature can be a real bitch when she wants to,” she added, she frowned “it’s a little sad, really,” she added somewhat wistfully “I’d probably make a really fun grandma” she continued

“Oh, definitely” Mark agreed wholeheartedly

“But, like you said, having a child that late in life is dangerous,” Claire continued, she suddenly looked very sad “truth of the matter is, I probably won’t get to see my grandkids grow up, not to adulthood anyway, even if, by some miracle, I live past one hundred,” she continued wistfully, she suddenly looked oh so very old, and Mark had the sudden urge to pull her into a hug and tell her it was all right. But just as suddenly as it came, the sadness in her face vanished to be replaced by the now-familiar cheerful exuberance “ah, but enough about me,” she said, waving her hand dismissively “now it’s your turn, Kid,” she said “so, come on, out with it, what skeletons are hiding in your closet?” she asked

“Yeah, Slick,” Maggie piped up as she walked out of the cottage and onto the porch, stretching her arms above her head “c’mon, tell us,” she encouraged, grabbing a ginger beer from the four-pack by Claire’s chair “nobody here but us chickens” she added, opening the bottle and taking a deep drink herself as she leaned against the railing

“No, no,” Mark laughed “for one thing there’s nothing to tell”

“No,” Claire challenged “there’s _always_ something to tell”

“The question is,” Maggie added in a challenging tone “is it _interesting_?” both women leaned forward, looking at him expectantly

“Well, is it?” Claire finally asked. When Mark remained silent, Claire pushed forward “OK, how ‘bout this?” she suggested “tell us about this girlfriend of yours”

“Oh, no,” Mark said adamantly, he stood up to go recycle his bottle in the large brown paper bag that Claire had brought for just that purpose, she’d even written ‘FOR RECYCLING’ on it in big black marker “trust me,” Mark continued as the bottle clinked into the bag “you don’t want to hear it” he continued

“Yes we do,” Claire insisted “c’mon, if you can’t tell your friends, then who can you tell?”

“We’re friends now?” Mark asked, puzzled

“Well…yeah,” Claire replied hesitantly, as if it had been obvious, she looked at Maggie questioningly “aren’t we?” she asked, Maggie shrugged indifferently

“Eeh” was all she said

“Well anyway,” Mark said, ignoring the sudden fact that he now had at least one new friend without even realizing it “like I said, trust me, you do not want to hear it,” he continued “it’s just…too… _weird_ ” he insisted, Maggie sat up straighter

“Ooh, now I _do_ want know,” she said suddenly, grinning slyly “ooh, what’d she do, Slick?” she asked, chuckling in an almost maniacal fashion “cheat on you? Huh? Or maybe did you cheat on her huh? So what’d she do, huh? Fill your gas tank with sugar? Slash your tires? Set your apartment on fire in a jealous rage? Come on, now you’ve _got_ to tell us!” she encouraged

“Oh, god, just tell her already,” Claire groaned, burying her face in her hands “otherwise she’ll never shut up” she continued

“Hey!” Maggie snapped indignantly

“Well, it’s true” Claire fired back, looking up

“Well, I didn’t hear you complaining that time I got Sammy to spill her guts about that boy she liked” Maggie retorted

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Claire insisted, emphasizing the last word “he said he doesn’t want to talk about it,” she explained “so don’t go pestering him about it” she added

“Oh, really?” Maggie challenged

“Yes, really!” Claire insisted, her voice rising

“Children” Mark interrupted; the two women stopped their building argument to look at him with equal expressions of surprise, before they turned back and scowled at each other

“She started it” they both said at once, each pointing an accusatory finger at the other

“Well, I’m ending it!” Mark snapped, he winched and then grimaced “oh, god, I sound like my father” he moaned

“Could be worse” Claire suggested, Maggie blinked, looking puzzled

“How?” she asked incredulously “we don’t know what his father’s like” she pointed out, gesturing to Mark

“Even so,” Claire continued “could be worse” she maintained

“O-kay…” Maggie said slowly, she glanced at Mark and twirled her index finger by her temple, the universal gesture for insanity

“Hey! I saw that!” Claire snapped

“You were meant to” Maggie replied, smiling sweetly, the two women suddenly grinned at each other

“Uh…how long have you two known each other, exactly?” Mark wondered suddenly, startled by this strange bond the two seemed to have

“About sixteen years,” Claire answered “we met when my ex-husband and I first moved here to the Island just before Sammy was born” she explained

“I was already working at Flo’s,” Maggie added, leaning back against the banister again “when this very pregnant, fifty-ish woman _waddles_ in one day, somehow manages to squeeze into a booth, smiles at me and says ‘it’ll be all right’, well I ask her what she’s talking about--”

“More like snaps it at me” Claire interjected

“Oh, I did not” Maggie insisted

“Mags,” Claire said evenly “your exact words were, and I quote ‘what the hell are you talking about? You don’t know me’” she explained, Maggie waved a hand dismissively

“Well, anyway,” she continued “at that time my husband and I were going through a very messy divorce, and this stranger,” she gestured at Claire, smiling proudly “just takes one look at me and can tell that I’m feeling like crap, I mean this woman doesn’t even know me from Adam, but she can still tell that I’m going through some deep shit, and tells me to keep my chin up”

“And we’ve been friends ever since” Claire finished, beaming, Mark could tell that there was obviously more to this story than what was being said, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Instead he turned towards the ocean, noticing how low the sun had gotten

“No way,” he exclaimed, he checked his watch, scowling at the thought that it had run down again “is it really that late?” he wondered, the two women glanced at their own watches in response

“Whoa!” Claire exclaimed, sitting up straighter “it _is_ that late” she remarked

“Wow, it’s already half-past five,” Maggie remarked “I got to get home, that bastard ex-husband of mine is due to drop off the kids” she continued, already halfway down the stairs

“You want me to drive you?” Claire asked

“No thanks, I can hoof it,” Maggie replied, she stopped and patted herself down as if looking for something, before turning back “hey, Slick?” she called out, Mark looked up

“Yeah?” he asked, startled to find himself suddenly responding to ‘slick’. Maggie quickly dug a scrap of paper out her pocket along with a pen

“Here…,” She said slowly, quickly scribbling something down on the scrap of paper “this…is…my cell phone number,” she recapped the pen and handed the paper to Mark “call me if you need anything,” she explained “hell,” she added “call me even if you just get tired of listening to the hippie here,” she jabbed her thumb at Claire, who promptly got up and determinedly marched over to Mark, taking the pen and paper from both of them

“Well, in that case,” Claire turned the paper over and wrote something else down on the back “this is my cell phone number and home number, call _me_ if you’re looking for some _intelligent_ conversation. Or even just something _worth_ listening to” she explained, glowering at Maggie, who simply shrugged

“Whatever,” she muttered, already hopping down the steps and off the porch “see ya around, Slick” she called out, waving before she turned jogged away, Mark and Claire both waved back as they stood side-by-side like the farmer couple in the painting _American Gothic_. Either that or the end of an episode of the _Beverly Hillbillies_ Mark thought. He glanced at Claire out of the corner of his eye as he watched Maggie leave

“Bastard ex-husband?” he asked as Maggie turned the corner and disappeared from view, Claire grimaced and shook her head

“Ugh, long story. Don’t ask,” she answered, sitting back down “that whole mess made my divorce look like a freaking cake walk in comparison” she continued, still grimacing

“I’ve got time” Mark challenged

“Yeah, but do you have a couple of _years_ to spare?” Claire challenged “because that’s how long it’ll probably take me to just explain the _reasons_ for the divorce, let alone what happened _during_ the _actual_ divorce” she explained. Now it was Mark’s turn to grimace

“Ouch! That bad?” he wondered

“Oh, yeah, it was like something out of a soap opera,” she explained “the only difference—besides that fact that it was, you know, _real_ —was that nobody had glowing bronze tans, or impossibly perfect hair, or—”

“…or changed to a completely different actor half-way through the show” Mark interrupted, leaning against the railing; Claire threw her head back and laughed

“Yeah!” she said “and if you’d seen Maggie’s ex, oh god, trust me, you’d have been _wishing_ for that to happen”

“Claire!” Mark exclaimed, shocked, but still laughing “that’s awful, god!” he continued

“Oh, trust me, that man is one of the _ugliest_ men I’ve ever seen,” Claire explained, shuddering “I mean, it’s not just his looks—although they weren’t all that great to began with, mind you—it’s his whole personality” she continued

“Oh, c’mon, he can’t be _that_ bad” Mark insisted, Claire shifted in her chair to face Mark

“Mark,” she said slowly, as if she was talking to someone who was a little ‘slower’ than the rest of the world “that man is one of _the most_ rude, boorish, womanizing, drunk, _whore-mongering_ **_assholes_** on the face of the Earth!” she explained vehemently, violently slicing her hand in the air to make her point 

“Claire!!” Mark exclaimed again, doing his best to contain his shock. Somehow hearing the words ‘whore’ and ‘asshole’ coming out of Claire’s mouth didn’t feel right to him, to Mark she seemed to be too sophisticated, too classy, too elegant, too…beautiful even to say such a thing without blushing. Claire snorted in response

“Oh, please!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes “my father was career Marine; I’m a military brat through-and-through. I spent half my childhood growing up on military bases around the world,” she explained, casually leaning back in the chair “I learned a _lot_ more than just how to swear,” she continued with a grin and a wink “plus,” she added “I was a tomboy as a kid—still am as a matter of fact—I was more into crawling around the guts of a V8 engine than I was in playing dress up or dolls. So I spent most of my childhood hanging out with a bunch of swearing, chain-smoking Marines who were usually already half-drunk and wrapped around some bargirl the second they got off duty. I probably learned how to swear before I fucking learned how to talk,” she added with another wink and a chuckle at Mark’s shocked expression “and besides,” she added, leaning forward and resting her arms on her knees “you have to understand that we are talking about a man who, in all the time that I knew him, spent a good half of his marriage either in bars or strip clubs, usually with some barely-legal bottle-blonde who had breasts the size of _watermelons_ sitting in his lap” she spat, holding her arms out in front of her to indicate the (obviously) false breast size

“I’m sensing some anger here” Mark remarked mildly, trying not to poke the bear

“Wow, what clued you in?” was the sarcastic response “Maggie’s my friend,” she stated simply, and Mark nodded in silent understanding, he’d kind of figured that Claire wasn’t one to abandon her friends, and her statement only confirmed it. She sighed and then slowly stretched her arms up above her head, letting out a pleased groan as she did so “well, c’mon, let’s get you unpacked” she said

“Oh, no, Claire, please, you don’t need to help me” Mark said, already standing up, to do what he wasn’t really sure, possibly to try and physically stop Claire from helping him. He wondered if he could get away with actually tying her down to the chair ‘a very nice woman is offering to help you, you idiot’ a voice in his head—which strangely sounded a lot like his sister—told him ‘so shut up and let her help’ the voice continued as Claire stood up

“No, please, I insist,” she said, holding up a hand to stop his protests, and Mark suddenly had the distinct impression that even if he did actually tie Claire to the chair it still wouldn’t stop her, she’d probably help him unpack with her feet or something “you’ve been letting me talk your ear off all this time, it’s the least I could do” she explained as she gathered up the box at her feet and carried it inside the cottage, Mark sedately followed, he’d finally given up on trying to argue with her and decided to just go with the flow “where’d you want this?” Claire asked, hefting the box

“Uh, just put it there” Mark answered, gesturing vaguely to the floor

“Can do,” Claire replied cheerfully, setting the box down “what’s in here anyway?” she asked, lifting the box and giving it a gentle shake

“Uh, my camera equipment” Mark answered

“Hey, cool!” Claire said with another grin, Mark purposefully marched over and gently pulled her away from the box

“Yes, cool, _and_ very fragile” he informed the grinning woman, Claire at least had the decency to look sheepish

“Right. Sorry” she muttered, Mark waved a hand dismissively

“It’s all right,” he said “just try to be careful with any box that says ‘camera’ on it” he advised

“Yes, sir!” Claire laughed, giving him a mock salute, Mark chuckled at that

“OK, so, I guess we’ll start with this one,” he said, gesturing to a box marked ‘BOOKS/MAGEZINES’ in black marker “and just work our way from there” he explained

“Groovy,” Claire nodded, at Mark’s odd look she defended her choice of words “what?” she demanded in mock indignation, hands on her hips “I’m a flower child,” she explained “deal with it, square!” she said in a mock outraged tone, Mark laughed

“Groovy” he replied, Claire grinned in response; she had a nice smile Mark noticed absently, open and friendly. Pretty too he added. As Claire crouched down and opened the box at her feet, Mark paused and stood there for a moment, noticing how the light from the open window caught her hair, highlighting it and enhancing the streaks of grey, turning her hair into a brilliant white-gold color while at the same time giving her face an almost-magical glow. It was a striking image, Mark realized, one that made her look like something out of a fairy tale _‘Like a fairy or a pixie’_ he thought _‘no,’_ he corrected himself a second later _‘more like an elf out of Tolkien’_ he realized, Claire was much too tall to be a fairy for one thing, and she probably wouldn’t like being compared to a fairy or a pixie anyway, being a tomboy and all, and Mark suddenly wished that he had his camera to capture the image when Claire suddenly looked over towards him.

Startled, Mark quickly turned away and bent down to open the box in front him, hoping that the red on his face would go away soon, when he heard a distinctive wolf whistle, was Claire…checking out his butt? Quickly looking up, he saw Claire grinning as she held up a copy of _Playboy_ magazine

“Oh-ho!” she chortled “now then, Mr. Daniels, please share with the class, what’s the story behind _this?_ ” she asked, grinning as she let the centerfold flap open, Mark chuckled

“Check out the photography credit” he challenged, Claire chuckled and squinted at the bottom corner of the page, and right there in fine print was

Photo credit: Mark Daniels

“Wow,” she said “I’m impressed, this is good,” she continued, the awe in her voice clear as she flipped through the magazine “this is _really_ good” she added

“My favorite is the one on the last page” Mark explained, turning the page revealed a photo of the model, still nude except for a part of stockings, apparently laughing at something

“Wow, that _is_ a nice photo” Claire remarked

“Yeah,” Mark answered “that was actually the first one we took, _I_ was the one who was nervous, not her, so she told me a joke, I can’t even remember the joke now, but…”

“…it relaxed you” Claire nodded

“Yep,” Mark agreed “got a good friend out that job too,” he added, he waved a hand dismissively “anyway” he said

“Right!” Claire said as if just remembering, she set the magazine down and hefted her box “unpacking!” she proclaimed, quickly unloading the other books and magazines with a practiced ease and skill, books in one stack, magazines in another. In less than five seconds by Mark’s guess the box was empty and Claire was already moving onto the next one, marked ‘KITCHEN’

“Wow” Mark said, amazed, Claire grinned at him

“Military brat,” she said simply “you got to learn to pack and unpack at a moment’s notice growing up” she explained

“I’ll bet,” Mark commented, he frowned “must have been hard, through” he muttered

“Eh?” Claire asked, Mark blinked, somewhat startled

“Oh, I was just thinking out loud, that it must have been tough growing up in that kind of environment,” he explained “having to drop everything at a moment’s notice, moving to a strange new place, new people” he inwardly winced as his mouth rambled while a voice in his head told him—loudly—to shut up, Claire, however, just shrugged, seemingly blasé about the matter

“Yeah,” she said, she stopped unpacking the box and rested an elbow on it, propping her chin on her fist as she frowned thoughtfully “I’ll admit,” she said slowly “it wasn’t exactly a picnic at times, tough to make any real lasting friendships growing up when you constantly have to move away, then you add in teenage rebellion and you get one hell of a deadly combination,” she chuckled “but,” she added “on the other hand, you learn more about the world around you, learn about different cultures, different customs, makes you more open-minded in the long run,” she shifted so that she was sitting down on the floor, using the box as a back rest, and stretched out her legs, idly twitching her sneaker-clad feet, which made the bright green laces bounce in an almost-hypnotic fashion “for example,” she continued “one time, in the late…fifties, I think—yeah, fifties—we moved to the Army base in what _was_ , back then, West Germany. Now here I am, I’d just hit puberty with a vengeance, I mean I’m just this side of spontaneously combusting from a combination of sheer teenage rebellion and hormones. I’m mad at the world because I had to leave the motorcycle-riding slacker who I thought was the ‘love of my life’…” she made little air quotes “…behind, and now, here we are in a completely foreign country, I don’t speak a lick of German, there’s a massive concrete wall just outside my bedroom window practically, on the other side of which sits a nation who follows an ideology that I’d been taught to hate and fear, my mother’s trying to be pretend that nothing’s changed and failing horribly”

“So, what happened next?” Mark asked, interested

“Well, at first, lots of screaming and throwing things on my part,” Claire began “I think I probably broke at least three new lamps in one month, then I met a woman who worked on the base, I think she was the wife of one of the other Marines there. Older woman, probably about my age now. Anyway, she seemed to take an interest in me, called me a ‘little spitfire’, taught me enough German to get by, German history, German food—oh god, Mark, the food, so good—she even snuck me out one night so I could peek through a crack in the Wall and see East Berlin,” Claire took a breath “after that, it got easier when we had to move again, because now I could look forward to a different place, new experiences, new people”

“So, where exactly have you grown up?” Mark wondered

“Oh, everywhere from Colorado to Katmandu,” Claire answered with a grin “and that’s not counting all the places I backpacked through during collage. Let’s see…,” she began to tick them off on her fingers “uh…Belize…Brazil…Bolivia…pretty much all of South America, really at some point…uh…South Africa…Mexico…Canada…France…Armenia…Greece…Italy…the UK…Germany…the USSR when it was still the USSR…uh…,” she paused and frowned thoughtfully “wow,” she muttered “I didn‘t really think about it until now,” she began “but…yeah, I think I’ve pretty much been to every country in the world at some point,” she realized, she blew out a breath “whoa”

“Yeah,” Mark muttered “‘whoa’ is putting it mildly”

“Yeah,” Claire echoed “cool” she grinned, Mark chuckled at that

“If you say so” he muttered

“And I do say so!” Claire proclaimed with another ear-splitting grin

*******

After Claire had helped him unpack everything (and she did unpack _everything_ , hell she’d even put the dishes away for him), Mark had bid Claire a surprisingly sad good-bye, and he had to admit to himself that he was very disappointed to see her go, seemingly sensing this Claire wholeheartedly offered to meet him tomorrow for an early lunch

“I don’t want to be a bother” he said, Claire just waved a hand dismissively

“Ahh,” she said “relax, Kid, you won’t be a bother” she assured him

“You’re sure?” Mark asked

“Oh, yeah,” Claire assured him happily “it’s no trouble”

“All right then,” he agreed “lunch it is” he grinned, Claire grinned back

“Well, you’ll probably want to get some rest now” she said, already heading towards the door

“Right,” Mark said, suddenly remembering that little detail, and still reluctant to see her go “well, I guess, I’ll, you know, see you tomorrow” he added lamely, she smiled and nodded

“Tomorrow” she agreed softly, slipping out the door with an easy grace, she turned halfway back towards him and held up her hand in the peace sign as she stepped down the porch steps. The sun had sunk low in the sky, at level with the horizon, making it seem as if the sky had burst into flames, the reds, oranges, and golds reflected off the ocean, turning the water a brilliant, shimmering blue.

Those same shimmering colors caught the grays in Claire’s hair, turning her hair into a shimmering white-gold curtain, the evening breeze lifted a few strands to float around her like a halo, making for a truly striking image and Mark could only stare at the vision before him “peace, Mark” Claire said softly with a small, enigmatic smile, with that she got into the Ranger Rover, started the engine, waved at him, and drove off into the evening.

Mark watched her go until the Rover disappeared down the bend in the road, mesmerized.


End file.
